


Ten steps to bewitch a knight

by Arthurian maiden (8Daenerys8)



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Holy Grail, M/M, Magic, Morgana is a good aunt, Morgause is not a good person, Quests, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23941696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8Daenerys8/pseuds/Arthurian%20maiden
Summary: What better way to get to Lancelot's secrets than pass right through his too eager and happy bastard son?A cliche fic where Mordred decides to bewitch Galahad for ulterior purposes, until feelings and a lost scabbard end up in the mix.
Relationships: Galahad & Mordred (Arthurian), Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian), Lamorak/Morgause (Arthurian), Morgan le Fay/Nimue
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. The first steps

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic about ten years ago and I am finally translating it. The story is complete, so I'll try to post a chapter every couple of days after translating and editing it.
> 
> Tags will be always updated with every chapter. 
> 
> Also, this fic is full of cliches! Sorry! I was very young when I wrote it.

Mordred returned to his own rooms, one of the court's pages following him nervously, trying to help him unlace his armor. Mordred slapped his hand away, finally managing to let the heavy chainmail fall into the floor. The helmet soon followed, thrown against the corner of the room, barely missing the ink bottle on the desk.

"Out of my away!" Mordred snapped, when the page moved his hands towards his tunic, sweaty from the tournament. He raised his hands, in a pacifying gesture, gathered the chainmail, and scurried away, door locking behind him.

Mordred moved to close the heavy curtains embracing his window, in an attempt to keep out the cheering of the festivities.

This happened. Every single time. At every single tournament. And it was always Lancelot who managed to unhorse him, a travesty of a show for the whole Camelot and the king.

Almost getting tangled in his tunic, Mordred finally managed to fling it away, on the floor as his helmet, and he let himself fall onto the bed.

Shameful behavior, his mother would have snapped.

"Barbaric Gauls," he muttered out, trying to recompose himself. He could also feel a bruise nicely forming on his side, the excitement of the tournament and the disappointment from the loss hiding it till now. 

A soft knocked broke the silence, and Mordred was ready to throw his anger at whoever decided to tempt fate by disturbing him. He stood up, rushing to the door.

"Ah, Agravaine."

"Hello, dear brother, I came to compliment you on the beautiful fall. You have the amazing ability of letting your horse slip just from under you."

Mordred tried to close the door on him, but he was tired, and Agravaine had always been stronger than him.

"You should have stayed for the rest of the tournament. The king was really enjoying it."

Mordred let go of the door, turning back towards his room, hands restless. He picked up his tunic and dedicated a couple of shameful seconds to trying to wrestle it back. 

"Do not worry, little brother. Lancelot will pay," Agravaine added. Agravaine the Handsome, that was the nickname the ladies and knights of Camelot liked to call him. Agravaine the Dangerous they should have called him, much more appropriate. 

"How so? He lives in the iron cage of the queen's love."

"Ah yes, the queen's love. That is exactly the point."

"What is your point? Arthur does not like this kind of talk."

"Not from us," Agravaine continued, walking in to sit on the bed. "There are closer knights to th king, closer to Lancelot. If we could convince one of them..." He let the sentence die out in the silence.

Mordred had lost his battle with the tunic, and had little patience for Agravaine's game. "You want me to convince Lancelot's friends that the queen and Lancelot are too close for their own good. You seem to forget that I am not popular among Lancelot's friends, or even my father's friends."

Agravaine raised an eyebrow at that, it wasn't often that Mordred called Arthur his father. 

"And neither are you," Mordred reminded him. Agravaine was particularly disliked by Lancelot and his group of Gauls, since the king's nephiew had tried to kill Pellinore all on his own. 

"There's still an uncorrupted mind among them." 

Mordred frowned. An uncorrupted mind- "The son? The bastard son?"

"Sir Galahad seems quite eager for new friends."

"New friends indeed. He seems to have a particular affinity for... friends."

"Jesus and Arawn slap you, Agravaine, just speak clearly." Mordred usually enjoyed the trickery of untold sentences and words, but not when he was on the other side of them. He felt slow, too stupid for Agravaine's plans, when his brother played that game. The same had been with their mother.

Agravaine stood up, seemingly content and satisfied with their frustrating conversation. "Dear brother, I suspect Galahad might enjoy the company of men more than women."

Mordred snorted, "He is a Christian, Agravaine, he enjoys the company of monks and chastity."

His brother said nothing, he just smiled at him, before leaving him full of doubts and half formed plans.

  
Mordred knew he wasn't particularly handsome. 

He scrutinized himself in the mirror aunt Morgana had gifted him, years before locking herself in her castle of Gorre. She had assured him the mirror was magical, but there was nothing particularly enchanted in the way he was reflecting Mordred's harsh lineaments. Women, and sometimes men, seemed to enjoy his face quite enough, his thin mouth and crooked nose. Or maybe it the way his dark hair mirrored Arthur's.

Mordred flattened it, mirroring the way Arthur kept his own. Galahad seemed enamored with the king, enough to probably find the similarity appealing. 

He wasn't sure Agravaine had been right, but Mordred knew there was little difference between seducing a friend or a lover, something he had learnt from Morgause many years before. 

The tournament loss from the previous day still burnt in his mind, but having a goal was reassuring, he was almost enjoying it. 

"Aunt Morgana... can you hear me?" he asked, softly, to the mirror. But of course, that was just a normal mirror and his aunt stayed silent.

He picked up one of his favorite tunics, a dark red, walking the fine line between an innocent choice and the royal purple. He left behind the mirror, leaving his room in the emptiness of the castle.

The second day of tournament had begun the early morning, this day was the first day of single combat, another challenge Lancelot particularly excellent into, while Galahad would participate the following day. Still, Mordred was sure the young knight would be there to support his dear father.

The silence and emptiness was soon broken, cheers and screams higher and higher the closer Mordred got to the field. He could see the elevated platform where the king and the queen watched the tournament. The colorful pavilions all around it, like mushrooms in a field. He spotted the deep violet of his brothers' tent, and walked right past it, hoping to not meet his overeager brother Gawain.

He carefully tip toed around Lamorak's tent, as he could easily hear Pellinore's booming laughter emerging from it.

No one stopped Mordred, everyone too busy getting ready for their turn of glory, and he was soon at Lancelot's pavilion, white, in a mocking expression of humility. And there it was, Galahad's white shield, no symbol on it, right at the entrance, leaning against the tent.

Mordred walked up to it, with caution he moved the cloth just a little, to be able to look inside. It was empty.

"Sir Mordred."

Mordred nearly fell into the pavilion, grasping the tent and turning around to face the too easily smiling face of Sir Galahad. He was not in armor, and, because of it, he looked particularly young. Certainly too young for the enviable abilities he had shown during this tournament.

"How can I help you?" Galahad asked, and Mordred could not feel any note of annoyance in it. 

"I was looking for you, actually," Mordred immediately replied, reminding himself why he was there. He let go of the tent, trying to return to a more dignified pose. He smiled, and Galahad mimicked it, almost automatically. 

This was going to be easy, Mordred realized, taking a step closer to the son of his enemy. The nuns should have taught Galahad a bit more of the real world.

"I wanted to give you some advice, for the tournament. This is my fourth." 

"That is very kind of you."

"I see your sword by your side, but the lance is actually the real protagonist of a battle. Once you fall from your horse the challenge is already half lost."

Galahad moved a hand to touch his own sword. He nodded. "Do not worry about me," a hint of confusion now.

"And using your left hand, even if it might seem uncomfortable-"

Galahad raised both his hands. "I do use my left hand. I can use both."

"I see." Mordred replied, annoyed. Of course Lancelot had had the perfect child and had instructed him on how to behave in a fight. He had hoped a life in the monastery had managed to mold a simpler child in the art of war. "Lamorak fights dirty. Sometimes he uses a female horse-"

"My father told me. I will use Joan myself, so she will be immune from such tricks."

"Very well, good idea," Mordred murmured. Alright, being helpful was not working very well, but he had seduced plenty of expert fighters without any need to train them with his own knowledge. If there was something he had been an expert his whole life it was his compliments. They had worked on Morgause's fits of anger, and sometimes even on Lot's coldness. A good compliment had always been Mordred's closest friendly weapon.

"You seem quite ready for this tournament. My brother Gareth was quite worried about you." He pointed at the sword by Galahad's side, "Surely a gift from your father. I have never met a better knight than him, and I believe you will soon surpass him."

Galahad blushed, almost violently, eyes moving around the pavilions around them, as if trying to look for an excuse to refute Mordred's compliment.

"Still, be careful in the tournament. It would be a pity if your beautiful face was ruined just for a friendly game."

Mordred knew he was being too forward, but he didn't have a lot of time to do this before Agravaine got tired of this new game, and moved to some novel trickery. Or worse, decided to leave Mordred alone in this, or start lamenting of Mordred's new enterprise with Gawain.

Galahad nodded, slowly, trying to understand what was happening to him. "That is... very kind of you." 

"I am only saying the truth," Mordred smiled, finding his line of thoughts again. "And your hands are as pretty and those of a lady. They would trick me, if I didn't know they can held that sword high against Sir Lancelot himself."

Galahad left his hands fall on his own side, and took a step back, looking around them. Suspicion started to creep into his smile. "You are unexpectedly nice today, Sir Mordred."

"We never spoke before, not really," Mordred reminded him. They had met the first day of Galahad's arrival, looked at each others, Galahad bright eyed, taking in the beauty of the Round Table, unaware of the queen's curious and embarassed attention. "I am usually very nice."

Galahad frowned, mind going back to his first night in Camelot when someone had closed him in one of the underground rooms, used for storage, and Lancelot had thrown Mordred's name as a sensible suspect.

"Your corteous face inspires kindess," Mordred went on. He took a deep breath, because his smile was still plastered on his face, but he was getting annoyed. Ladies were usually kinder in their dance, they knew all the steps already.

"I am not sure what to say, Mordred," Galahad stammered. 

"Nothing to say, I assure you, I am just here to let you know what every other lady here in Camelot is saying. Their opinion is shared."

Mordred's attempt were suddenly interrupted by Lancelot's arrival. The man was breathing hard, hair sweaty, face elegantly not as red as what happened to Mordred when he was fighting. 

The French knight, the most loved in the land, close to the king and the queen both. He suspiciously looked at Mordred, eyes moving from his own son to the king's one. His eyes were as blue as Galahad's.

"Sir Mordred," Lancelot greeted, voice cold. He bowed, kindly and rigidly.

Mordred took a step back from the bastard son. "Sir Lancelot, what a pleasure to see you come out whole from every fight."

"Father." Galahad hugged him, squeezing his shoulder. "I am ready to go."

Sir Mordred took another step back, and Lancelot's eye moved on him again. "I think the seneschal was looking for you, Mordred."

Sent away, as if he was a simple squire, Mordred left, knowing when he was being defeated. Still, compliments and kindness had seemed to start chipping at Galahad's distrust. 

Mordred returned to the castle. There was no point in staying to look at the tournament, and subjecting himself to false reassurances about his fall from the day before. Galahad would not participate in the competition until the next day, so he could just return to his own shame, and wait.

He didn't need to meet with the seneschal. Sir Kay probably wanted to give some extra duties, now that he was out of the tournament.

Agravaine was waiting for him.

"So now you can just come and go from my own room?"

"I've always done that, since you were just born."

"Not going to support Gawain?" Mordred reminded him. Agravaine liked to stay on everyone's good side. 

"I am actually more curious about you, so I am here to support him."

"Nothing happened, he didn't reveal any of Lancelot's morbid horrible secrets yet," Mordred barked out. "He seemed pretty baffled by my enchanting presence."

"I am sure there are many other ways to find out what is happening between Guinevere and Lancelot." 

There surely were, Mordred knew it. What a beautiful way to destroy Lancelot's reputation.

Still, the queen... The queen had always been kind to him.


	2. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred takes the next step, what better way to get on someone's good side than a bunch of gifts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite different from what it was. Oh boy, it is so cringy to read the old stuff I read... it makes me want to just delete everything again, haha.

Mordred woke up finally rested. Camelot was warm, gentle, compared to the harsh cold of the Orkneys. Mordred could easily forget the frozen mornings of his childhood, if he could keep Camelot with him for the rest of his days.

Mordred could easily enjoy his bed without the need to rush out and prepare the fire for the day. He stretched lazily, thinking of the previous days. Galahad had won against Aglovale, which had pleased Mordred immensely. Aglovale and his horrible family of traitors. Pellinore, Aglovale's father, had killed Lot in a tournament, using cheap trickery, and no vengeance had been given to Gawain's family.

Seeing Galahad run and humiliate Aglovale in front of everyone had been interestingly satisfying. Galahad did know how to fight, only his father and Bors had managed to defeat him. The show he had offered to the whole court had made it quite clear that Mordred's suggestions had been useless additions to an already complete knight.

Compliments and kindness had been better weapons.

And if bewitching the Christian knight could not lead him to Lancelot, then, it would be as easy for him to get his revenge by humiliating the young Galahad. Lancelot would die of shame at the thought of Mordred corrupting his perfect son. And this kind of humiliation would not touch queen Guinevere- 

Enough of this.

Mordred stood up. Time to do some work. 

Mordred took out half of the clothes from his closet. Cloaks that his mother had sent him, tunics, the gloves Arthur had given him his first day in Camelot. A gift was a wonderful idea, and Mordred had plenty. Morgause never forgot to send him pacifying gifts, waiting for the day Mordred would finally put his foot down and force Arthur to invite her at court. No amount of ermine or gold had convinced him yet.

Ah yes, ermine would be perfect. He grabbed the blue cloak lined with white ermine, and rolled it up around his arm. 

He asked a page where he could find Galahad, under a disbelieving Gawain, who seemed to decide that this was one of Mordred's childish games, because Mordred was free to walk to the stables without Gawain trying to ask him more or follow him.

The old stones of the castle were already warmed up from the morning sun of summer, but the castle stayed pleasantly cold, the remains of a cleverly built Roman fort, turned into the seat of Camelot. Walking outside hit Mordred with a wave of heat. As expected, Galahad was in the stables closer to the front entrance of the palace.

They housed some of the guests' horses as well, and Joan, the mare Galahad had used for the tournament, among them. Galahad was leading her around the main courtyard, giving her some easy exercise. 

"Sir Galahad, leave your mare be, there are some other ladies in Camelot that are starting to feel neglected."

Galahad froze on the stop, turning around to look at who was interrupting his lazy morning. "You don't seem a lady to me," he answered, after a few seconds of hesitant silence.

The unexpected words left Mordred speechless, standing like a fool, with a full winter cloak weighting his arm. 

"Are you here for more advice?" Galahad nudged him.

"A humble gift." No one could say Mordred was an easy person to intimidate or surprise. 

"I have nothing to give in exchange."

Mordred shook his head, raising a hand to stop Galahad's protests. "I said I gift, didn't I?" He unfolded the ermine cloak. It felt soft and beautifully crafted, Morgause had assured him it had been made in Byzantium, a show of wealth that Lancelot's family could not share. Mordred was well aware of the history of Lancelot's family, the loss of his lands and kingdom, and the austerity that seemed to reign on the land of Galahad's mother, Elaine of Corbenic.

Galahad flattened his hands by his side, as if afraid he could accidentally touch the gift and forever ruin it. "It is beautiful. I cannot accept it, sir."

"But you must, I insist."

Mordred took a step forward, Galahad one behind.

"I am going to let it fall into the mud," Mordred threatened, raising the cloak in front of himself. He didn't give time for Galahad to protest even more, he just opened his hand. 

Galahad rushed forward, on his knees, catching the cloak before it could be soiled on the tramped mud and dirt. 

"Not so hard, see?" 

Galahad looked up at him, with a glare that Mordred had never seen before. "I thank you for the gift." He put the cloak on his shoulder, not minding the heat, and returned to tend the impatient horse.

Mordred blinked, slowly. That was it? Mordred himself had plenty of experience of gifting his attention and some trinket to one handmaiden or another, and never with such hesitant and rigid reply.

Before Mordred could add anything else, the youngest of Pellinore's cursed sons run down the stairs, almost tripping on himself when he saw Mordred.

He slowed down. Both Mordred and Percival were well aware of their own family history. The animosity was bound to explode, some day, but not yet, and Mordred bowed kindly to the newcomer.

"Sir Mordred," Percival greeted him, carefully. "Sir Galahad, I was looking for you." His sneaking glaces at Mordred were enough to show him that he wasn't quite welcome in these two friends' secrets exchanges.

  
The next day, Mordred found a small note on his usual sitting place, at the dinner table on the Eastern wing of the castle. It was were him and his brothers usually spent their evening, sometimes Palamedes and his family joining them.

"Oh, look, he sent you a thank you note," Agravaine commented, playing with the small note, blowing against it, letting it fly among the curious glances of Safir and Gareth. "But you did not obtain anything else."

Mordred caught us the note, in mid air. "Do not worry about it."

"What are you two doing?" Gareth asked, crossing his arms, with a severe look that looked quite strange on his round face. Too much like Lot, if not for his good nature.

Safir put a hand on Gareth's shoulder, leaning against him. "I have heard Sir Galahad received a pricey gift from your brother Mordred."

Gareth took a deep breath, moving his eyes to the ceiling. "Ah, Mordred."

"It's not what you think," Mordred immediately replied, kinder than usual. With all his apparent distaste for Gareth, Mordred still felt the need for his approval. They were so close in age, and yet so different. Gareth was well loved by anyone, and in return, ready to love as well. Humble, of a true humility that Mordred was sure was envied by many, in Camelot, Lancelot first of all.

Agravaine, slid his goblet of wine towards Mordred. "It is exactly what you think. Our dear little brother is trying for another Earthly conquest. He has taken a liking for blond hair and a monastery education."

Of course, he could not voice any of his or Mordred's feelings towards Lancelot, as Gareth was enamored with the man. 

"Oh, Mordred. You must know that Galahad cannot-" Gareth's voice, was interrupted by Safir's short boisterous laugh. "We do not know," he said, with the face of someone who maybe did know.

The room was warm, warmer to Mordred's flushing face, ashamed that Gareth had to know of what he was doing. The food on the table, an undefined roasted bird with some vegetables, was looking a bit less appealing. He put the written note in a pocket and went for Agravaine's offered wine.

"Worry not, Mordred, take my gift." Agravaine threw him a little wooden box, that Mordred only barely managed to catch, the box opening at the clumsy impact with the table.

The anonymous simple box was hiding a red jewel, a beautiful ruby, cut as a circle at the center of a small silver cross. A Christian cross, probably, one of the sides longer than the other, but the human God of the Christians was not pictured on it, just that drop of red precious stone.

"Where did you find this?"

"From Lynette. She heard of your enterprise."

"She took it from Gaheris?"

Agravaine shrugged. "Something Gaheris has probably stolen from mother."

Mordred took the silver cross, cold, heavier than expected. Morgause was not a Christian, but her sister Morgana had been raised in a monastery. Galahad was probably going to appreciate a Christian cross, even if the thought of giving him something owned by Morgause made him feel uncomfortable.

"That would pay for a good armor," Safir commented, leaning against the table to look at the ruby.

"Or a good heart," Agravaine chuckled and Mordred knew he was probably right. Christians really loved their golden and silver chalices and crosses, and this was much better than the wooden cross Galahad was always wearing.

Camelot was still warm, four days later, when Mordred noticed lady Lyonesse walking through the gardens, not a care for the beautiful flowers around her. She was walking straight, right towards him, head held high, but that was not unusual. Lyonesse possessed a rare, still elegance, the complete opposite of the nervous excitement that always surrounded her sister Lynette.

Lyonesse's handmaiden was right behind her, a young red haired woman, whom Mordred had spent a couple of days with, the previous summer. She was now about to get married, and happily so. 

Mordred put down his book, standing up, wondering if this was it- Arthur's word to him, chasing him away from Camelot. 

"My beautiful ladies," Mordred bowed.

The handmaiden, Elaine, mirrored his bow, before quickly walking up to him, taking out a small book from her dress belt. She offered it to Mordred. She had a quick amused smile on her face.

Mordred tentatively took the small leather bound volume. 

"I had to see this," Lyonesse commented, her head cocked on her side, her white veil sliding over her shoulder. "Sir Galahad came to my husband and asked him to thank you, for your gifts. He sends you this book."

Mordred was not sure why Galahad preferred to pass his thanks through notes and through Gareth. He looked down at the small book, it could fit in his hand, it looked easy to carry, old, used. Something personal.

"My husband doesn't think this is the right course of action," Lyonesse continued, but Mordred was not listening to her anymore.

  
Agravaine found Mordred still curved at his desk, reading by candle light, restless.

"A good book?"

Mordred did not even have the mind to remind him to knock. He raised the small book Galahad had given him. "This! This is from Galahad. For me." 

Mordred turned the book around so that Agravaine could read the inscribed title. Poetries from Theocritus. 

"You could have bought ten of those with that ruby."

"How does he know I read Greek?"

"Because you are not an educated swine?" Agravaine suggested, but his answer felt unheard, Mordred was too taken by his book.

"Look, 'To Sir Mordred, with all my gratitude for your kindness. I can imagine you would appreciate the words from the lost Greek world, as I know you are knowledgeable of the language. My gift pale in comparison to yours, and I apologize for that-' How does he know?"

Agravaine was sure his brother was making a big deal out of absolutely nothing. He squeezed Mordred's shoulders, feeling the tenseness. "He probably asked about you to Gareth. That's a good thing, right? This is what we want. To get to Lancelot and Guinevere."

"Or to just shame Lancelot," Mordred reminded him. 

"Ah, so the queen also got your little heat."

Mordred shrugged off Agravaine's hands and his brother let him go. "Can I give that to Laurel? I am sure she would enjoy the poetry."

"No, it's mine now."

  
Agravaine was starting to see that his brother was as lost as the others to Guinevere's bewitching beauty and kindness. Morgause's words, Morgana's intents, all were lost and forgotten in his family, once faced with the queen's graciousness.

Still, shaming Lancelot and his Christian family could have been a delicious prize as well, even if it looked like Mordred was enjoying the plan a bit too much. 

Truly, Mordred was the strangest of his brothers. 

Feminine hands grasped his shoulders, a laugh resonating in the long empty corridor. His sister in law Lynette was always too full of energy for the dignity of Camelot.

Agravaine always thought she looked a bit like Morgause in her war like need to discuss everything she could find, still, she was more direct in her words than Morgause ever was.

"What are you scheming, Agravaine?" she asked him, letting go of him and moving by his side, clearly intent to walk by him.

"Mmh, did you manage to poison that page that was annoying you so? You look particularly amused and refreshed today."

"You believe me a witch! I should be offended, but I am only ashamed to disappoint you. I know nothing of poisons and magic," Lynette laughed. Her light brown hair was still unbound, uncovered, even if she had been married for the past two years.

"We should all meet up with my aunt Morgana, one day."

"You are trying to distract me, Agravaine, I know you gifted Galahad the silver cross. Guinevere's handmaidens were talking about the beautiful silver pin Galahad was wearing this morning. What are you trying to do, Agravaine? I thought you hated Sir Lancelot."

"Lynette! How can you? My heart belongs to Lady Laurel. It is Mordred's charms and desires that seem to wander, he is now desperate for the attentions of Galahad."

Lynette's large and flat nose curled up, in disbelieve. "Now. That sounds unlikely."

"He is doing everything he can, but as you might expect, Galahad is as cold as the Christian God. Gifts and compliments do not seem to work very well."

"You know what worked with Gaheris? Jealousy."


	3. Quests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the plot! Mordred is sent on a quest.  
Also, I completely rewrote this chapter.

"You know, jealousy is-"

Mordred slammed his hand on the desk. "Agravaine," he stated, voice calm, in contrast with the tense trembling of his shoulders. "Why are you here."

"I am helping you to find love, remember?" 

Mordred snorted, turning around, glaring at his brother who was calmly sitting on the bed, softly bouncing on him. He was grinning, amused by the whole situation.

"No, you want me to ask Galahad for his father's dirty secrets, Agravaine. Remember?" That had been Agravaine's plan, and it looked further and further lost into the past weeks and days. For every smile of the queen, for every kind touch on Mordred's shoulder during a walk in the gardens, Mordred had grown more and more hesitant.

"You are in love with the queen, so I decided it is enough that we shame the young Galahad together. It will be the gossip of the castle. Imagine Lancelot's Christian trembling shame."

_Yes_. Mordred could imagine. Lancelot had given himself completely to the Christian god, some said that it was his way of finding respite for his sinful love. His own son had been raised by nuns, after Elaine of Corbenic had joined the monastery, declining any other lover. 

Mordred was not sure how her magical enchantment of Lancelot fit in her Christian values, but he didn't pretend to understand their religion of sin. And he knew of sin, he knew the intimate shame that came with it. Arthur loved to appeal to the Christians, he organized Christmas, he pretended to believe in the mark of his sins as shadows on the kingdom.

Mordred could spit on the Christian sin. Otherwise- what was he, even? He had to deny it, pretend to not see that more and more people were starting to be allured by the magic Latin words of the Bible. 

"So, what? You are going to catch us as lovers?" Mordred asked, doubtful that it could ever come to that.

"You just have to be a bit more, you know, how you are."

"How I _am?_ What does that mean?"

Agravaine the Handsome had a very clear idea of what both him and Mordred had inherited from their mother. Gawain was boisterous strength, but he was shy and clumsy with words. Gareth had always been too eager to please, too kind to realize that words could be used for more than greetings, and Gaheris had never had the will or the interest in gaining status or importance. He had his lovely wife Lyonesse for that, and they both seemed to enjoy the stand of their marriage.

"Smart, that's what I meant." Of course he didn't. He meant unashamed greediness and ability to please.

"Then maybe I should go directly to Lancelot, aye? Ask him for a tumble in his bed?"

"That would be a plan, but sure you can compete with the queen?"

Mordred had no intention to compete with the queen. He was also sure Lancelot could easily strangle him, something that Galahad seemed too much of a coward to do. 

Galahad was just- innocent. Kind. How he could be kind and come from the same religion that denounced Mordred's very existence, he was not sure. Galahad was wide eyed, easily surprised, he laughed much more than Mordred expected.

One time. He had laughed at a joke Mordred once. He had laughed.

"Why do you seem so... so pensive," Agravaine wondered, suspicious, and Mordred stood up, closing the letter he had been writing to their mother.

"You know, sometimes, people have things that they must do, Agravaine."

"I did hear Galahad had been quite busy this week. Training. And you have been quite busy yourself, watching."

"You expect me to train with the son of Lancelot?" Mordred demanded, angrily. He had been watching, he had been reading a lot, trying to understand what Galahad had meant with the book. It had just been a book.

  
Arthur called for him three days later, and Mordred could not ignore his king and father, even if he greatly enjoyed letting him wait.

There was a game they played, each with the guilt of the other. Mordred knew there was a line, but he could drag it, move it, he could test it, see how far till Arthur decided it had been too much.

Being late was easily within the realm of possibilities, for Mordred, so he walked to the Round Table room, without too much apprehension.

Arthur was sitting, a spread of papers all around him, taking over Kay's empty seat as well. He looked like a king even in his simple white tunic, hair ruffled from sleep. 

He had dark circles under his eyes, somehow he even looked more like Mordred than usual. 

Arthur looked up at him. He didn't acknowledged his lateness, this was also part of their quiet tacit pact. Nonetheless, he must have been annoyingly late because Lancelot, Galahad and Bors were in the room with him. Lancelot was whispering something to Arthur, sitting on his usual spot, while Galahad and Bors were looking around the table, as if reading the names on it.

"You called for me, uncle." There was the dangerous excitement of secrets in _that_ word.

Arthur's mouth thinned. His hands spread, on the table, on the papers. Lancelot straightened up, sitting as if in the presence of another king, dignity used as a shield.

"I need you to do something for me, Mordred."

Mordred kept standing, waiting. He gazed at Bors and Galahad. And Galahad smiled at him, like a fool.

"It is about your aunt. She took something from the castle. I need you to speak with her, for me."

That was not what Mordred had expected, and he realized that part of him had been afraid Arthur had somehow gotten word of his and Agravaine's strange ideas on Galahad.

"She doesn't answer to my letters."

"She is not in Gorre anymore." Arthur's voice was firm, sure, he knew that for a fact. He probably had spies reporting to him from every corner of the kingdom. "Your mother would know where Morgana is. And Queen Morgause asks of you, she asks of your health."

"And for the health of Camelot." 

Morgause had waited years to be called to join Camelot's court again, but her motives tended to be fickle. Between Morgana's dangerous gifts and Morgause's threats of announcing to the court of Mordred's birth, Arthur had preferred to keep both his sisters far away from Camelot, where their plans could not reach him as easily.

"She is not... coming here, there is too much danger in the roads" Arthur confirmed. He had no intention of calling for her. "But a visit from her youngest sons might persuade her to help us anyway."

"Us. What is this mysterious object you lost?" 

Arthur hesitated, but Mordred was disappointed to see that he didn't seem concerned with the presence of Lancelot's family. They must know already, before Arthur's own son.

"My scabbard."

Mordred opened his mouth- nothing came out. The king had lost his scabbard.

Tales said that the lady of the lake herself had donated the magical Excalibur to Arthur, with the promise that the scabbard was as precious as the weapon. While the power of Excalibur had no rivals in the land, the scabbard was the necessary shield. Any person wearing it would never bleed out, not even from the most terrible of wounds.

"This cannot get out of this room, Mordred," Arthur continued. 

Mordred nodded, slowly. "Of course," he promised. And he knew that if the tale left the Round Table, he would be considered the first suspect. "You want me to convince my mother of revealing Morgana's secret hideout, and then begging my aunt to return your scabbard. The magical scabbard."

"And... if you could reassure your mother that everything is well here."

Ah yes, Mordred realized, Arthur was afraid Morgause would see the loss of the scabbard as the perfect opening, and maybe even leave for Camelot. Maybe to show everyone how important was for Arthur to have an heir now that even he could bleed.

"Why me?"

Arthur looked at him, and said nothing. Because Mordred was good with his words, because he could easily seduce a knight or a lady, and because - Arthur trusted him more than Agravaine. He _trusted_ him.

The realization made him gasp for breath. His head reeling. 

"I will go." The words were not his, they were just the result of this bone that Arthur had given him, like a benevolent master. 

Arthur smiled, gratitude embarrassingly easy to read on him.

Interestingly, Lancelot sighed, a hand hiding his mouth. 

"Someone will have to accompany you, the roads are not safe for just a knight."

Doubt arose in Mordred's mind again, and his thoughts reminded him that Arthur did not probably trust him that much. Sending a closer knight with him could be the easy way to be sure that Mordred did not plot with Morgause, or get the scabbard for himself.

Galahad took a step forward, the attention of everyone else now on him.

"My liege, I could not help but hear." He exceeded in kindness, because truly Arthur had done nothing to hide his words or plan. 

The king nodded at him, inviting him to say more, with fatherly patience.

"I would accompany your nephew."

Lancelot jumped up. "Galahad, I am sure the king will choose a more experience knight for this journey."

Galahad cocked his head, softly, eyes still on Arthur. "Forgive me, father, but I do not have any false modesty. I do believe I am among the better of what the king can offer."

Arthur raised a hand, and father and son quieted. 

Mordred took a step back, deciding this was enough for him, confused by Galahad's offer. He bowed, asking for Arthur's leave to retire again.

Once Mordred had left the room, Lancelot decided that Arthur's request for silence was very well over. 

"Friend, I do not wish for my son to leave to meet with Morgana," he clearly explained, worry trembling his voice.

"Is Mordred the problem?" Arthur wondered, turned to look at his best friend. 

Behind him, Bors fidgeted. Mordred was a difficult confusing subject. Arthur loved him, that much was clear to Lancelot, but he could be both cold and too protective of the young nephew. His son. This was not a well known secret, only him and Guinevere were aware of the fact.

"There seems to be many dangers in such a journey," Lancelot answered, carefully, but truthfully. He did not trust Morgause, and he knew the woman could destroy part of what Arthur had built just with a word. He despised Morgana and her dishonorable trickery. And yes, he was afraid of Mordred and his slick oily words. The way he had gifted a ruby to Galahad, the way he had been wandering and buzzing around him, almost hungry.

"You think I cannot defend myself against a witch?" Galahad's voice broke the path of his thoughts. "My faith protects me against Morgana, my will is the only shield I need."

Arthur passed a hand through his beard. He had only recently started to let it grow, finally overcoming his Roman upbringing. "I would give to Galahad this, as his first quest as a Knight of the Round Table."

"Your Majesty," Galahad bowed, grateful.

"And do not worry, my dear Lancelot. Your son is a man of honor, I know him to be fair and pure. Anyone else would be in danger at Morgause's castle, but not him."

Anyone else, like yourself have been? Lancelot thought, bitterly. 

"You know, I worry for my son, but I understand your decision."

Arthur could not reply that he too felt worry for his own son.


End file.
